"Good Lord!" exclaimed the Postilion, and fell back a step.
"Well?" said I, meeting his astonished look as carelessly as I
might.
"Lord love me!" said the Postilion.
"What now?" I inquired.
"I never see such a thing as this 'ere," said he, alternately
glancing from me down to the outstretched figure at my feet, "if
it's bewitchments, or only enchantments, I don't like it--strike
me pink if I do!"
"What do you mean?"
"Eyes," continued the Postilion slowly and heavily, and with his
glance wandering still--"eyes, same--nose, identical--mouth, when
not bloody, same--hair, same--figure, same--no, I don't like it
--it's onnat'ral! tha' 's what it is."
"Come, come," I broke in, somewhat testily, "don't stand there
staring like a fool--you see this gentleman is hurt."
"Onnat'ral 's the word!" went on the Postilion, more as though
speaking his thoughts aloud than addressing me, "it's a onnat'ral
night to begin with--seed a many bad uns in my time, but nothing
to ekal this 'ere, that I lost my way aren't to be wondered at;
then him, and her a-jumping out o' the chaise and a-running off
into the thick o' the storm--that's onnat'ral in the second
place! and then, his face, and your face--that's the most
onnat'rallest part of it all--likewise, I never see one man in
two suits o' clothes afore, nor yet a-standing up, and a-laying
down both at the same i-dentical minute--onnat'ral's the word
--and--I'm a-going."
"Stop!" said I, as he began to move away.
"Not on no account!"
"Then I must make you," said I, and doubled my fists.
The Postilion eyed me over from head to foot, and paused,
irresolute.
"What might you be wanting with a peaceable, civil-spoke cove
like me?" he inquired.
"Where is your chaise?"
"Up in the lane, som'eres over yonder," answered he, with a vague
jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.
"Then, if you will take this gentleman's heels we can carry him
well enough between us--it's no great distance."
"Easy!" said the Postilion, backing away again, "easy, now--what
might be the matter with him, if I might make so bold--ain't
dead, is he?"
"Dead--no, fool!" I rejoined angrily.
"Voice like his, too!" muttered the Postilion, backing away still
farther; "yes, onnat'ral's the word--strike me dumb if it ain't!"
"Come, will you do as I ask, or must I make you?"